A different kind of birth (and “proof” of God)

A few weeks ago, I sort of got into it with a friend-of-a-friend on Facebook. I’m still not sure it was wise; I mostly got involved as a defense to my friend; it bothered me to see his Christianity under attack. I learned long ago, that one cannot debate anyone into the Kingdom of God.

And here’s why I was so attracted by these verses: The friend-of-a-friend was searching for proof — undeniable, scientific, irrefutable, tangible proof — of God’s existence, and stated that he could not trust anything less reliable that that.

Strangely enough, I was thinking about this exchange while my mother was dying.

As she drew closer to death, the kindness, sweetness, and presence of God increased on her, and in her room. It was remarked upon, countless times, by hospital staff and visitors. It was not “scientific, irrefutable, tangible proof,” but to me, it was truly evidence of God being in her life, working through her, expressing Himself through the weakest, most vulnerable person imaginable.

Another beautiful intangible I experienced during my mother’s last hours was this:

One of my favorite aspects of natural birth is the “community” aspect of it: During the most difficult hours of labor, everyone present is ultra-attentive to the birthing mother in a minute-by-minute way, in almost a prescience — alert to the point of foreknowledge to what the mother might need. The attention of everyone is fixed on her. Birth becomes an effort of not just the mother, but of those who love her; everyone does whatever they can to help the birth come about. Her preferences, her loves, her comfort becomes the shared goal of all present.

It was that exact same way with my mother.

We sang songs she had sung to us as children, as well as her favorite choruses from church. We reminisced. We took turns snuggling with her in her bed. She smiled contentedly, head tipped back, eyes closed, soaking it in…

And, as things became more difficult — labored — my mother wanted to sit up, with her legs over the side of her bed. Nevermind that this was virtually impossible, and nevermind that it wasn’t rational. Just like a natural birth, when a mother just feels like she needs to be in a certain position, all who assist her swing into action to accommodate. So it was with my mother, near the end of her life: One behind her, supporting her back. One on her side, arm surrounding her waist or shoulders, keeping her upright. At times, someone else in front of her, keeping her from slumping too far forward.

I had the thought, multiple times, “We’re birthing her into the Kingdom of God.”

My mom had been in the hospital for three weeks. At one point, several days earlier, I unexpectedly ran into an acquaintance in the halls, and glanced at his wrist., seeing a familiar, handwritten band. “Are you a new father??” I asked. He affirmed that he was, only an hour or so into the mind-bending experience.

I internally marveled at the circle of life, come to bear, right in front of me.

Perhaps that sounds cliche: “circle of life.” But at that moment, it was profound.

The day of my mother’s death, I was talking with a friend… She is a hospice volunteer, and mentioned how — on countless occasions — on one evening, she would spend time with the dying, and the next day, she would hear news of a brand-new birth. She has been struck, too, by the same notion of life coming full circle, and how right it seems.

And then, with some excitement, I shared with her — this friend who is not a mother — that sense I had had, comparing a natural birth to a spiritual birth, and how, though it was in many ways difficult, how full of God it was, how much it felt like that was His plan.

She completely understood.

I can’t express how important her understanding was to me. Just by her being completely on the same page, tracking right along with my thoughts and feelings, I felt like God was providing His love and comfort directly to my heart.

Yesterday, at church, she gave to me what might be the most unusual — yet apt — condolence card, ever. It was a wedding card, embellished and lovely. Inside, she had pasted her own sentiment: “Remembering our conversation… She’s with the Prince of Peace in her white gown; beautiful Jean. He sings a song only for her. She is free of pain and sings with Him her savior.”

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About Karen Joy

I'm a homeschooling mother of six -- 3 boys ages 18, 15 and 13 years old, and three girls: 9, 6, and 2. I like birding, reading, writing, organic gardening, singing, playing guitar, hiking, the outdoors, and books. I am a natural childbirth advocate and an erstwhile birthing class instructor. I'm a CSA coordinator for a local organic farm, Crooked Sky Farms, as well. I have a dear hubby who designs homes for a local home builder and who is the worship pastor of our church. I live in the desert, which I used to hate, but now appreciate.

This was so beautiful, Karen. Only a few words could express your inner most thoughts of the heart. God is so relevant in all we say, do, or experience! I am sure you have a renewed sense of intimacy with your heavenly Father because of this!

Thank-you for sharing your thoughts–expressed beautifully. I too have seen the similarity of birth and death (being born into heaven). I have been at the bedside of my son, mother-in-law and father as they passed from this life to the next. And I have had the joy of assisting my daughter during labor, being present for the birth of our grandchildren. Each of these times has been blessed by family community and the sense of God’s presence.

What a beautiful post. My heart goes out to you. You have been in my thoughts and prayers since I learned that your mother was dying. Last week, the mother of three kids that go to our youth group died, and I was sitting at her wake and funeral, thinking how in the presence of death and grief, I was so joyfully carrying new life, and even watching my belly jump every so often. Life is really such a mix of joy and grief, life and death.

the sun came out this morn' without fanfare...
a greying blanket covered all the vale.
instead of forcing its warmth-giving face
to pull the cover back and dry the damp,
it moved on higher, leaving undisturbed
the clouds that bless'd our morning with light drops,
and let its light shine dimly on the land
as filtered through a cloth, soft on the eyes.
The raindrops sprinkle glasses, windshield, face.
i feel afresh the touch of Heav'nly grace
that such as i could be so bless'd in this,
a simple shower, making my heart glad.
the overcast that met me at my door
has made me smile upon this fine, wet day.~Adam Bertrand